


Breaking In and Taking Care

by RetroactiveCon



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Barry's Bad Attempts At Seduction, First Time, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:21:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21623695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RetroactiveCon/pseuds/RetroactiveCon
Summary: “You broke into my house…to feed me?”Snart shoots him a look that, on anyone else, he might call ‘fond.’ “I don’t like the Flash interrupting my heists. That doesn’t mean I want harm to come to Barry Allen.”
Relationships: Barry Allen/Leonard Snart
Comments: 39
Kudos: 430





	1. Chapter 1

Barry returns home to the delicious but inexplicable scent of roasting meat. He bolts into the kitchen and is confronted with the bizarre sight of Leonard Snart pulling a dish of risotto out of the oven. _“Snart?”_

“Barry.” Snart sets the dish of risotto on the stovetop. He shucks an oven mitt off one hand, grabs a fork, and gestures at the kitchen table. “Sit.” 

The whole situation is so surreal that it never crosses Barry’s mind to disobey. He sinks into a chair and asks, “What are you doing?”

Snart blows gently on a bite of risotto. For the first time since recognizing the pasta, Barry realizes the implications. He’s never in his life bought risotto. Snart went grocery shopping? “I saw you today after your little run-in with Peekaboo. You almost collapsed.”

Unfortunately, he’s right. Barry mumbles, though he’s sure Snart has already guessed, “Low blood sugar. I’m fine now.” 

Snart tastes the risotto and makes a pleased sound low in his throat. Without glancing at Barry, he discards the fork, slips his hand back into the oven mitt, and pulls a tray of chicken out of the oven. Barry has to suppress a moan—the smell makes him realize that he’s lightheaded with hunger. He must not be entirely successful, because Snart glances at him out of the corner of his eye and smirks. “‘Fine,’ huh? What did you do, stuff yourself full of power bars?”

Yes, in fact, he did. Snart has no right to judge. “You broke into my house…to feed me?” 

Snart shoots him a look that, on anyone else, he might call ‘fond.’ “I don’t like the Flash interrupting my heists. That doesn’t mean I want harm to come to Barry Allen.” He piles two chicken breasts and several spoonfuls of risotto on a plate and plops it in front of Barry. A fork and knife soon follow. “Eat.” 

Under Snart’s watchful eye, Barry cuts himself a bite of chicken. He raises it to his lips with some hesitance—Snart wouldn’t stoop to poison, would he?—but the moment it touches his tongue, he forgets his fear. _“Oh my God.”_

Snart’s eyes gleam with pride. “Glad you like it, Scarlet.”

If Barry could think beyond the flavors bursting across his tongue, he might blush at the unexpected nickname. As completely focused on food as he’s suddenly become, he registers ‘Scarlet’ as a natural progression of Snart’s playful ‘scarlet speedster.’ “This is _amazing.”_

“It’s Lisa’s favorite, too.” Snart props his hip against the counter. Barry has the half-formed thought that he ought to be alarmed by how at home Snart looks in his apartment, but it’s gone before he can muster any worry. “I’ve had a lot of practice making it.” 

“Are you not gonna eat?” Barry resists the temptation to eat an entire chicken breast at superspeed. He’s made himself sick that way: after a day (or several) spent barely eating enough, scarfing down his food is too much for even his accelerated metabolism to handle. 

“I didn’t think you would be too enthusiastic about eating with a criminal.” There’s a slight inquisitive tilt to Snart’s head. Barry said something he didn’t expect. He can’t help a pleased flush; his ability to catch Snart off-guard is, he suspects, at least half the reason he isn’t dead of frostbite. 

“You cooked,” he says simply. “It seems rude of me to deny you a seat at the table.” 

Snart serves himself a chicken breast and a healthy helping of risotto. Initially, he tries to take the seat at the far end of the table. Barry beckons him closer. “It’s okay, I don’t bite.” 

“A good little boy like you? No, I doubt you do.” Having made the expected quip, Snart slides down to the seat beside Barry. 

“Maybe if you ask nicely.” Barry blames the hunger-induced lightheadedness for how easily the words fall from his lips. Snart’s crooked smile only grows. 

“Tempting, Scarlet, but I think I’ll have to pass.”

Their meal is astonishingly companionable. With some coaxing, Barry rambles about his day: how all of his cases at CCPD are high-priority and he’s had no time to rest, how he accidentally reunited with an ex-boyfriend who is now pyrokinetic, and how Snart’s Rogues seem to have decided this is the week to play with the Flash. This makes Snart laugh. 

“They’re bored,” he drawls. “None of them are malicious; they just enjoy the chase.” 

“Hartley works with us.” Barry gesticulates with a piece of chicken. “He’s not even really a Rogue. I don’t know what he’s doing.”

“Oh.” Snart finishes off his risotto. “That I do know. He likes your captain.”

“Singh?” Barry chokes on his chicken. Snart leans over and thumps him helpfully on the back. At least, it would be helpful if Barry didn’t get overwhelmed by his sudden closeness and forget how to breathe. After his oxygen levels normalize, he manages, “Hartley has a crush on Singh?” 

Snart shrugs. “Objectively, he’s an attractive man. Not my type, but attractive.”

“You have a type?” Barry blurts. As soon as the words leave his mouth, he realizes how rude they are. “I mean, I guess I thought you didn’t do the dating thing, or maybe even the sex thing. You kind of give off this air like you’re, I dunno—above it, or something?”

Snart chuckles. Now that Barry is breathing normally, he’s returned to his seat. This helps both Barry’s breathing and heart rate, although he’s now acutely conscious of their proximity and doesn’t understand why. “Yes, I have a type.” 

“Uh.” Barry is not at all comfortable with the turn this conversation has taken, or with his role in initiating that turn. “So. Hartley and Singh. He knows Singh is married, right?” 

Snart shrugs. “Hartley has an unfortunate preference for unattainable men. We have that in common.” To Barry’s dismay, he gets to his feet. “I ought to go. It’s late, and I would hate for the neighbors to see me leave your apartment after hours—who knows what they might think?”

Against his will, Barry finds himself thinking that he wouldn’t mind people drawing the wrong conclusions. He gives himself a vigorous shake that he hopes Snart interprets as disgust. “Yeah, that would be bad. Uh, but we didn’t really talk about you.”

“There’s not much to tell.” Snart pulls on his parka, which had been carelessly discarded on one of the spare chairs. When Barry makes a face, he amends, “But if that’s what you want, I’ll come by again sometime.”

“Yeah,” Barry agrees without thinking. “I’d like that.”

After he’s sure Snart has left, he cleans the kitchen at superspeed. While he works, he chides himself, _“I’d like that?_ What was I thinking? He probably left thinking I have a crush or something…” Unbidden, his brain supplies the same fluttery, hazy sensation he’d felt when Snart leaned close. “I don’t have a crush! I’m not crushing on Snart! That was a perfectly normal reaction. He was close, and his eyes are really blue, and he kinda smells like winter air and that’s nice and oh God.” He flops down into the kitchen chair and buries his face in his hands. “I have a crush.”


	2. Chapter 2

Snart appearing in his kitchen becomes a semi-regular occurrence. One day, he makes stew; another time, he prepares a spicy macaroni-and-cheese dish that Barry could happily eat every day for the rest of his life. In response, Barry starts baking cookies and leaving them out for him, feeling vaguely like a small child anticipating a visit from a wintry spirit. (Few of said cookies survive until Snart’s visits, but when he apologizes, Snart just grins. Barry has the odd feeling he’s been tricked into feeding himself.) 

Along the way, he gets to know Snart. (“You know you can call me Leonard,” he’d said with his characteristic smirk after Barry called him ‘Snart.’ Barry had blushed and stammered and stuffed his mouth full of macaroni to prevent any further embarrassment.) He’s every bit as cool and calculating as Barry thinks, but with a little work, Barry uncovers a side of him that’s surprisingly warm. The ways he expresses this warmth are odd—he’s clearly more service- than touch-oriented—but once Barry learns them, he gets a little fluttery rush every time he notices them. 

With every meal, Snart—Leonard—lingers longer than the previous time. First they stay at the table, chatting over cookies and letting the leftovers get cold. Gradually, Barry feels comfortable enough to invite him into the living room, where they make themselves cozy in armchairs. The most recent time, Leonard joined him on the sofa. Barry spent the hour after his departure filled with aimless, jittery energy that didn’t dissipate until he ran a circuit around Central City. 

This time, he resolves to do something to make Leonard similarly flustered, if it is indeed possible to fluster Captain Cold. ‘Something’ is probably going to be a colossal disaster, because Barry doesn’t have a plan. Then, as he changes back into his civilian clothes after a brief jaunt as the Flash, he remembers how Leonard had watched him that day at Saints and Sinners. 

“He _does_ want me,” he says aloud. 

“Huh?” Cisco glances up from the bank of monitors. “I don’t even think I wanna know what that means.”

“Uh.” Barry thinks back to the way Leonard looked at him, almost as though he was trying to see through Barry’s clothes. (That would, even at the time, have been a shamefully easy feat had he voiced his desires aloud.) “I don’t think you do either.”

“Tell him if he hurts you, I’ll gut him.” Cisco returns to whatever he’s reading. Barry frowns. He hasn’t mentioned Leonard’s continued visits to his flat because he knows how Cisco and the others will react. 

“Tell…who?” 

“Hartley.” Cisco scrolls further down in his article. “I annoyed him into confessing that he’s got his eye on someone at the CCPD, and I mean, you’re cute. Ergo, if he hurts you, I’ll gut him.”

A short, sharp laugh bursts from Barry’s lips. He claps both hands over his mouth, ashamed that he’s capable of such a noise. “No, it’s not Hartley! He’s not interested anyway.” 

Cisco blinks, bewildered. “But everyone else at the precinct, except maybe Joe and Eddie, are all jerks, and Eddie’s with Iris.”

“He’s interested in Singh,” Barry admits. If word ever reaches Hartley that it was he who told, he’ll find himself on the wrong end of his vibrational frequency for a minute or two. Hopefully Cisco can keep a secret.

He leaves the Cortex with the sounds of Cisco’s jubilant whoops echoing down the hall after him. Tonight, if Leonard is there, Barry has a plan. 

Of course, now that he has a plan, Leonard waits almost a week to appear at his apartment, this time with broccoli-and-cheese rice and pulled barbecue chicken. Barry takes the opportunity to tease him. “Do you only know how to make comfort food?”

Leonard tilts his head, acknowledging Barry's point. “Guilty as charged. In my defense, if you’ve ever looked after a child, you’d know how crucial comfort food becomes.” 

Barry shakes his head. Thankfully, no one in his life has ever trusted him with a child. He loves them and thinks they’re adorable; he also knows he would probably end up accidentally maiming any child left in his care. “I mean, it’s not that I mind… _ohmygod_ this is amazing.” 

Leonard hides a smile in his glass of water. “Why have you chosen tonight to call me out on my cooking habits?”

“I just noticed it tonight.” Barry stuffs another bite of cheesy rice into his mouth. “It’s good, it’s really good. And it’s heavy, which is kind of what my metabolism needs, so…”

“I figured.” Leonard nudges a foot against Barry’s. Ordinarily, Barry would withdraw; this time, he keeps still. When Leonard doesn’t draw away, he figures it was a deliberate nudge. “When Lisa was, oh, fourteen or fifteen, she used to accuse me of trying to make her fat. At the time, for context, she was ice skating and learning mixed martial arts, so as you can imagine, she needed the energy.” 

Barry laughs. Iris, who had done track and field and cheer in school, went through a similar phase and actually swore off all forms of pasta. (It lasted about a week. Joe’s legendary spaghetti was too much temptation.) “Were you in lessons with her? Ice skating seems like it might be up your alley.”

Leonard snorts a derisive laugh and nearly chokes on his rice. “Hardly! She convinced me to go out on the rink with her once. I was bruised for weeks.” 

“You’re so graceful, though!” Admittedly, Barry’s concept of ‘graceful’ might be skewed. He is, after all, prone to running into lampposts, falling off of treadmills, and tripping over his own feet as often as not. 

“I’m light on my feet,” he says with a disdainful sniff. “Ice skates don’t count.” 

The way he delivers this line sends Barry into gales of helpless laughter. Even once he’s recovered, he finds himself erupting into giggles throughout the meal, until Leonard finally raises an eyebrow and says, “I’m glad you find me so amusing.”

“Sorry.” Barry clears the table in a flash, hoping to burn off the urge to giggle. It does little except leave him with the need for a snack, so he munches idly on more chicken while he washes dishes. Without being asked, Leonard steps to his side and helps dry. “You know I can do this myself before you dry that dish.”

“Yes, but where’s the fun in that?” 

‘Fun’ reminds Barry of his plan. As it seems the right time, he puts it immediately into action. “Hey, swap me? It kinda creeps me out that you know where everything goes. If I put stuff away, I can pretend you don’t.” 

Leonard agrees to swap places. This leaves Barry with an excuse to stretch up on tiptoe when he puts dishes away; in the process, he lets his shirt ride up and bare his stomach. The first time, Leonard seems not to notice, but by the fourth or fifth time, Barry can feel his gaze lingering on the patch of exposed skin above his waistband. He should have worn lower-slung jeans. 

(As the thought crosses his mind, he wonders when he got desperate enough to put on a show for Captain Cold and why Leonard’s obvious approval is so enjoyable.) 

By the time the last dish is put away, Barry feels vaguely ashamed of and deeply satisfied with his performance. He can still feel Leonard’s eyes on the small of his back. When at last he settles back onto his flat feet, he turns around with as much feigned innocence as he can muster. “Did you wanna sit down?”

“I ought to go.” Leonard’s voice is lower than usual. Barry can’t help shivering. He sounds deeply, thoroughly aroused by Barry’s inexpert show, so why is he running away?

“This early?” He makes a show of glancing at the clock. 

“Early to bed, and all that.” Leonard musters a shadow of his customary smirk. Barry’s brain helpfully supplies exactly why they should go to bed at once. Given how skittish Leonard seems, he forces himself to keep quiet. “Good night, Scarlet.”

“Night,” Barry echoes. As soon as Leonard leaves the room, he sinks down into the chair. Being watched so intently—to say nothing of being spoken to with that low, heated tone—has him weak at the knees. It seems his plan has backfired. _“Fuck.”_


	3. Chapter 3

Leonard has never claimed to be a saint, but he hasn’t felt this much like a dirty old man since the first time Barry Allen sauntered into Saints and Sinners and he entertained far too many detailed thoughts about bending him over the pool table. Even then, he could forgive himself. It was his territory, and the kid looked so deliciously out of place—it was impossible not to think of taking advantage of his wide-eyed innocence. This, though: this is Barry’s home. Leonard is intruding, however welcome that intrusion has become, and he has no right to think about backing the kid up against the worn kitchen counter and having his way with him. 

The kid probably has no idea what he’s doing to Leonard. Certainly it isn’t his fault that his shirt keeps riding up while he puts away the dishes. It’s natural and unavoidable and entirely Leonard’s fault for being unable to tear his eyes away from the strip of pale, smooth skin just above the waistband of his jeans. 

The kid turns to put away their glasses and Leonard is treated to the sight of a constellation of freckles in the small of his back and the barest glimpse of dimples above the curve of his ass. He needs to go. If he lingers, he’s going to do something unwise like try to get his hands on that pert little ass. 

“Did you wanna sit down?” Barry turns around, all wide eyes and hopeful smile. He has absolutely no idea what he’s doing to him. It takes a monumental effort not to grab the front of his absurd cardigan and haul him into a kiss. 

“I ought to go.” Leonard dutifully keeps his eyes on Barry’s face rather than glance down in hopes of another glimpse of that slender little belly. 

“This early?” Barry glances at the clock. Any other time, Leonard might find it amusing how quickly the kid came to enjoy his company. Tonight, he wishes that weren’t the case. 

“Early to bed, and all that.” No matter how often he tried to instill it in Lisa, he’s never subscribed to the ‘early to bed, early to rise’ policy. The night offers too many opportunities, one of which is absolutely not taking Barry to bed. “Good night, Scarlet.”

“’Night,” the kid echoes, sounding almost hurt. Leonard nearly reconsiders. He’s denied himself more tempting things; surely he can control himself long enough not to break Barry’s heart. Unfortunately, that thought is symptomatic of precisely how weak his self-control has become. He can’t afford to stay. 

It’s an abominable summer night, and the heat does nothing to clear his head. By the time he gets home, there’s nothing to be done except take an ice-cold shower and pray that a good night’s sleep will clear his head. 

It takes a week, but Leonard masters his lustful feelings well enough to once again venture into Barry’s flat. As an apology of sorts, he prepares the macaroni dish to which Barry seemed so partial. Because of this, Barry’s arrival is heralded not by a whirl of lightning but by a positively sinful moan. Leonard forces himself not to think about the other contexts in which he might make a noise like that. “Hey, Scarlet.”

“Hey,” Barry replies. He’s pink-cheeked and bright-eyed from his run, and upon seeing Leonard, he beams like a child. “Uh, gimme a second.”

He disappears and reappears in precisely the length of time it takes for Leonard to register his absence. His customary collared shirt and sweater have been disregarded in favor of a soft, baggy maroon t-shirt. “Okay, that’s better.”

Leonard smirks. Out of his work clothes, he looks small and vulnerable and endearingly cozy. It would be the easiest thing in the world to press up against his back, wrap gentle arms around his waist, and kiss…No, that’s a dangerous train of thought. “Red really is your color.”

Barry tugs on his hem. “I guess so. Is that dinner?”

“Help yourself.” Leonard stands aside and watches with no small amount of pride as Barry scoops himself half the pan. He must misread Leonard’s expression, because he glances guiltily at him and says, 

“Uh, I can put some back?” 

“No.” Leonard scoops himself a decent amount of macaroni and gestures for Barry to sit. “I told you, take as much as you want.” 

Obediently, Barry sits. When Leonard joins him, he scoots closer and smiles. Out of habit, Leonard pets the back of his hand. The kid craves closeness, attention, and touch, and Leonard has become far too weak to deny him. 

“You know, you haven’t stolen anything lately,” Barry teases between bites of macaroni. “It’s making me nervous.”

“Well.” He has, in fact, been planning heists. His agreement with Barry is that no one will die; he never agreed to stop stealing. “If I said I was considering robbing the Rathaways on Hartley’s behalf, would you be angry?” 

Barry ponders. “Probably not.” 

The conversation continues in this and similar veins. Barry proudly reports that Caitlin is expecting and Ronnie is threatening to name the baby Charm, like a quark. (“Charm Raymond Snow doesn’t sound terrible,” Leonard replies. From there, they’re lured into a twenty-minute discussion of middle names.) In turn, Leonard regales him with the story of Mick’s midsummer bonfire and an unwise number of s’mores. 

Not long after the discussion of Mick’s bonfire, Barry gets to his feet to clean up. Leonard promptly offers to help, with the idea that if he puts the dishes away, he won’t be treated to the accidental show he received last time. Somehow, he still winds up washing dishes. To his dismay, this means he has to watch as Barry stretches, leans up on tiptoe, and bares just the right amount of skin to tantalize. He could look away, but when presented with a perfect view of the careless smattering of freckles on Barry’s hip, how can he resist?

It isn’t until the last dish is washed that Barry bends down, ostensibly to tuck it in the back of a cabinet but perfectly oriented to give Leonard a full view of his ass. Leonard is moving before the implications have fully occurred to him. One hand falls naturally into the dip of Barry’s waist; the other cradles his hip. Were he unwelcome, Barry would freeze or skitter away and babble in confusion. The ease with which he rocks back into Leonard’s touch confirms his sudden realization. 

“You could have just asked, Scarlet.” 

Barry straightens up and presses back into Leonard’s hold. Deliberately or not, this involves grinding his ass against Leonard’s not-entirely-soft cock. “Yeah, but I’d probably have rambled, and you liked this.”

There’s no debating that, not when Barry can no doubt feel exactly how much Leonard enjoyed his show. It does, however, raise an interesting possibility. “Oh, Scarlet. Did I leave you cold last week?” 

Barry nods. “Why did you run? I mean, the last thing I’d ever expect from you is retreat.”

Leonard nuzzles the soft skin under Barry’s ear. To his amusement, the kid lets out a breathy moan and tips his head to one side, offering easy access to his neck. “I didn’t know you were putting on a show for me. I thought you were just trying to put dishes away and I was being a dirty old man.”

Barry scoffs. “You’re not that old, and I could have put the dishes away at superspeed. I was hoping you would…” 

“What?” Leonard brushes his lips against Barry’s neck but refrains from actually kissing him. “Pin you against the counter? Take you to bed? I thought good little heroes waited at least until the third date.” 

Barry gives a little impatient huff and squirms against him. “We’ve _had_ at least three dates, plus I’m not exactly one to take it slow. Also please kiss me, I know you want to.”

Obediently, Leonard grazes his teeth against a trio of freckles just under the hinge of Barry’s jaw. “You sound like you have this all planned out, Scarlet. Why don’t you tell me what you want?”

It’s as much to tease as it is to gauge Barry’s interest. The moment the kid opens his mouth, Leonard sinks his teeth into an inviting stretch of skin. He gets the pleasure of hearing Barry’s thoughts evaporate: “I want…” stutters away and turns into a shameless moan. So his neck is sensitive. That’s good to know. 

“Well, Scarlet?” Leonard presses a soothing kiss to the red, slowly-darkening area he was biting. Barry lets his head drop back onto Leonard’s shoulder and tries again. It takes him several tries to articulate his plans because Leonard starts trailing open-mouthed kisses down his neck and each one makes him temporarily forget what he was saying. 

“I want you to kiss me like, _oh,_ like that and get me off with your hand and then undress me and fuck me until I scream.” 

Leonard hums his amusement into the kid’s neck. “Not the blushing naïf, then, Scarlet. And here was me thinking you were as innocent as you look.”

Barry lets out a breathy, strung-out laugh. “Uh, superspeed kinda makes everything…faster. I kinda bypassed ‘shy’ after the first time I came like six times in a row.” 

Were Leonard a younger man, that particular mental image might have ended things on the spot. As it is, he’s unable to suppress a groan. “You can’t just _say_ things like that.”

“Oh.” Barry shifts his hips back. “I didn’t think that would be the thing that got you. I thought I might have to say something like ‘I vibrate when I get aroused’ to convince you that I’m worth your while.” 

Leonard clutches the kid’s hips hard enough to bruise. “I didn’t know getting struck by lightning was so useful in the bedroom.” Before Barry can answer, Leonard spins him around and pulls him into a kiss. Even after what he’s just heard, he half-expects the kid to want a slow, chaste first kiss. He’s by no means prepared for Barry to open up to him and coax him into using tongue. “Needy,” he teases, his voice breathier than he would like.

“I’ve wanted you for weeks.” Barry stumbles backwards until he’s pressed against the counter. “I don’t wanna wait anymore.” 

Leonard pulls him into another hot, sloppy kiss. This time, Barry yelps. When Leonard draws back, confused, he’s met with a sheepish grin and a shy explanation. “I hit my hip on the drawer handle.” 

“Then perhaps we should move to somewhere that’s less of a risk.” 

This was, in retrospect, the wrong thing to say to a keyed-up speedster. The next thing Leonard knows, he’s in the bedroom, or he thinks he is. It takes Barry’s hand on his arm and several deep breaths to steady himself. “Give a guy some warning before you do that.” 

“Sorry.” Barry tilts his head. “Please don’t be about to vomit? Because I want to kiss you again and that would be unpleasant.” 

Leonard refrains from rolling his eyes for fear of worsening his rapidly-fading vertigo. “Then maybe next time have a little patience, Scarlet.” 

“Well, since it seems like I’m always the one waiting on you…”

Leonard grabs him by the front of his shirt and pushes him back against the door. It’s fascinating to watch the way the kid loses his train of thought, cheeks going pink and mouth dropping open, and to see the way he melts against the door like his legs won’t take his weight. “Who’d have thought,” he teases. Since Barry seems to want it, he crowds into his space, stopping only when he feels the humid whisper of Barry’s breath across his cheek. “Looks like you have a thing for being pinned, don’t you, Scarlet?” 

“Uh.” Barry goes half-cross-eyed to in order to meet Leonard’s gaze. He’s much too dazed to come up with a coherent answer, so Leonard leans in and kisses him. It takes a second for him to realize what’s going on, but once he does, he kisses back as though Leonard is the only air in the room. It’s all too easy to let the kid set the pace, let him turn the kiss hot and dirty, let him rub against Leonard’s thigh until he freezes up and makes a sharp sound in his throat. 

“And you’re telling me that’s not quits for the night?” While the kid is pliant and dazed from his orgasm, Leonard lifts his shirt up over his head. Barry lets Leonard move him as he pleases, but he doesn’t help. 

“No, nope, not quits.” Barry tucks his arms over his chest. Leonard wraps gentle fingers around his wrists and guides his arms to either side. Unlike Leonard, who’s a mess of scars, the kid’s skin is soft and unmarred, and Leonard can’t wait to touch. “I can kinda just go and go, so…”

“So keep going?” Leonard takes a slow step backwards. He has no idea how Barry’s bedroom is laid out, or more critically, what pitfalls wait between the door and the bed. To his relief and slight astonishment, the floor is clear. They make it to the bed without incident, whereupon Leonard reverses their position and pushes Barry down onto his back. He goes easily and scoots up the bed to leave Leonard more room. “Do you have condoms?” 

Barry disappears from the bed and reappears with a nearly-empty bottle of lube and a condom packet. Leonard arches an eyebrow at the mostly-empty bottle but says nothing; Barry’s absurd sex drive has already been demonstrated. He sets the supplies in easy reach and strips himself of his clothes. Barry kicks off his jeans, whereupon Leonard is forced once again to reevaluate this strangely kinky little speedster. “No underwear, Scarlet?”

“Uh, I may have left it off when I changed after work.” He grimaces. “I kinda hoped we’d get here sooner? Because that was sensory bad.” 

Leonard laughs and crawls into the inviting space between Barry’s spread thighs. The kid clearly wants a kiss, which Leonard gives him, albeit perhaps not where he wants one. The soft unmarked skin of his chest is too tempting to ignore, and the way Barry’s heartbeat flutters under his lips when he presses kisses to his sternum is a reward in itself. 

“You’re adorable,” he murmurs, kissing a lazy path up Barry’s chest and neck. At the same time, he skims his hand along the outer stretch of Barry’s thigh. The kid spreads his legs wider; Leonard can feel every shift of muscle beneath his skin. For the first time, it strikes him that this sweet kid submitting so readily to him is the same lightning-born speedster who’s bested him on any number of occasions. All that power, so eagerly placed in his hands. “You really want this?”

Barry nods and pulls him into another messy kiss. “Don’t know how much clearer I can make it.” 

Leonard is hardly going to deny the kid (or himself) any longer. That doesn’t necessarily mean he intends to hurry, a point proven by how slowly and thoroughly he prepares Barry with his fingers. Barry is vocally dismayed. 

“You can go faster, I’ve done this before” is followed by “I’m ready, I’m ready, I want you in me now” and, when Leonard ignores him in favor of rubbing his fingertips across his prostate, turns into a yelp of “Don’t, don’t, I can’t—” Barry’s cry cuts off and he comes, hitching his hips down onto Leonard’s fingers like he likes the overstimulation. Leonard gives him more of it until he squirms away, too sensitive to enjoy it any longer. 

“All good, Scarlet?” 

Barry makes a helpless affirmative noise and slumps back on the mattress. “I can keep going,” he murmurs. “Just might take a little longer.” 

To give him time to recover, Leonard moves at a slow, almost leisurely pace when pushing into him. At first, this is for Barry’s sake; it quickly becomes clear that Leonard also benefits from taking his time. Barry is so hot and tight that if Leonard hurried, he wouldn’t last.

“Barry, _fuck.”_ He tosses his head back, closes his eyes, and mentally recites the names of security systems until he no longer feels perilously close to orgasm. “You’re so tight. Am I going too fast?” 

Barry’s fingers brace Leonard’s chin and pull his head back down. When he opens his eyes, the kid is watching him with hazy, eager eyes. “You’re not gonna hurt me, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He rolls his hips down, not setting a rhythm as much as adjusting to the feel of Leonard inside him. “I adjust quick, so you can just kinda…”

“Move?” Leonard rolls his hips, testing. Barry’s eyes flutter and he keens. 

“Oh yes please.” 

Another night, perhaps, if there is one, he’ll take his time. He’d like to see how his impatient little Scarlet reacts to being fucked slow and deep, whether he’d appreciate taking his time or whether he’d try to beg for more only to lose the words with each thrust. Tonight, though, even his fabled patience is running low. He sets a quick, brutal pace that makes Barry cling to him and try for sloppy kisses that break off into desperate gasps. 

It’s a shift in the pitch of Barry’s moans that warns him how close his little Scarlet is to coming. On instinct, he tangles his fingers in the kid’s hair and pulls sharply enough to hurt. Evidently, it’s the right thing to do: Barry’s nails dig into his shoulders and he lets out a sharp, helpless cry. The noise and the little pinpricks of pain trigger Leonard’s orgasm. He muffles his yell by biting Barry’s shoulder hard enough to bruise.

The aftermath, by necessity, is less pleasant. Leonard forces himself to get up and dispose of the condom; although Barry could have done it quicker, he also looks too dazed to move. By the time Leonard returns to the bed, Barry has just mustered the energy to open his eyes. 

“So.” Leonard doesn’t often cuddle after sex. He might make an exception for Barry, because there are few things for which he won’t make an exception for Barry, but not unless invited. Lacking permission, he stands a few paces away from the edge of the bed. “Was that what you wanted, Scarlet?” 

Barry rolls over to face him and reaches for him. It’s blatant and pitiful, and Leonard is left with no choice but to sink back down onto the mattress and cuddle him. “It was perfect,” he murmurs. “Was it…was I…?” 

Leonard narrows his eyes. “Yes, Scarlet,” he says slowly. “You were good for me.” 

Barry curls closer to him and makes a sound of utter contentment. Leonard hides a smile in the kid’s hair. This is more what he’d expected from his sweet little Scarlet, and it’s every bit as enjoyable as he’d imagined. 

“You can stay.” Barry’s voice is muffled against Leonard’s neck. “I mean, if you want. You don’t have to leave.” 

He will eventually—he dreads to think what Mick has burnt in his absence. Still, he doesn’t mind lingering for a while. Rather than thank him for the permission, he murmurs, “Adorable,” and cuddles him more tightly. If the way Barry purrs at the touch is any indication, he doesn’t mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't the worst thing I've ever written, but it's my first time posting smut so I feel vaguely ashamed of myself. I'm so very sorry for what you've just read.


End file.
